


The Greatest Illusion

by katrinajg



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: F/M, Gen, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-09
Updated: 2013-01-09
Packaged: 2017-11-24 05:52:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/631142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katrinajg/pseuds/katrinajg
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Sanity is life's greatest illusion! And don't listen to Sithis. Innocence, bah! He stole that line from me! Well the Me that was Me before Me."  Five different times the Dragonborn met Sheogorath outside of Pelagius' mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Parts I-III

The first time Yrsa met Sheogorath outside Pelagius' broken mind was as she rounded the corner in a barrow. The Nord was crouched low to avoid detection by the draugr's that lived there, though 'lived' probably wasn't the right word. (Haunted was better, but still not quite right.) Lydia was behind her a few paces back, her heavy armour making more noise than the Dragonborn's leather. It was better to keep a bit of distance between them. That way she could stealth-kill most of the draugr's and yet Lydia is still on hand to help with the more...persistent ones.

She was alert and wary of anything that might move, her dull grey eyes darting back and forth from crypt holes to the carved sentinel arches. It was in one of those that a movement caught her eye. In flash she notched an arrow and pulled the bow back, ready to kill any undead monsters.

“Is that anyway to greet an old friend?”

The Dragonborn started at the address, and released the tension on the bow. “By the Nine...Sheo-”

The daedric prince held up a hand to stop her. “Wouldn't want to wake the dead, now would we? Or at the very least the dead that are light sleepers.” He stepped down from the sentinel arch where he had been standing, twirling a strange sort of cane in one hand. 

Yrsa followed it's lazy circles with her eyes a few times ( _'Talos,_ she thought, _was that an eye on the end of it?'_ ) before snapping back to him. The words of _'The Book of Daedra'_ filtering (unhelpfully) through her head: _'Sheogorath, whose sphere is Madness and whose motives are unknowable.'_

“I gave you the Wabbajack to create mayhem and biscuits among the rest of your mortal kin, and what do I find? NOTHING! Not even a single chicken or grummite or shepard's pie or cheese! And there can never be enough cheese!” Sheogorath placed a hand on his hip and leaned forward on his odd cane, coming slightly closer to eye level with the still crouching Dragonborn. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

It was unnerving looking into those blank eyes but she didn't look away.

“Er...Sorry?” What did one say to apologize for not creating mayhem? Generally Yrsa was apologizing for the mayhem caused, usually after a 'WULD' in the middle of town.

“Apology accepted! Now, for a fitting punishment... Hmm...”

“Whoa, what?” she hissed. “I thought you said-”

“Haha! Got it! You're going to love it...or hate it, that's the appropriate sentiment when it comes to punishment isn't it?” Sheogorath bounced his cane on the ground. “I really should remember that, considering.” He tapped a finger next to his eyes then gave a jaunty wave. “Ta-ta!”

The moment he was gone a great shrill wail cut through the entire barrow, and the Dragonborn's hands shot to cover her ears; bow clutched awkwardly in one hand and the arrow forgotten. After a moment it ceased, but in its wake it had awoken every draugr in the barrow. Their undead corpses were rising from the slots all around her.

“Oh, for Talossakes! Lydia, get up here!” Yrsa bellowed as she notched an arrow and let it fly into the nearest draugr.

“I'm here, what was that awful noise?” her Housecarl asked, drawing her sword.

“Oh, just a little punishment via the Madgod.”

Lydia sliced through one of the slower moving draugrs, quickly moving on to the next. “I told you talking with daedric princes' was going to come back and bite you in the ass.”

“Now really isn't the time for 'I told you so's',” Yrsa snapped, as she notched another arrow.

\- - - -

The second time she met Him, Yrsa was making her way into Understone Keep to blackmail the Jarl's steward. She had already stolen his amulet the night before. As usual she met Thongvor Silver-Blood outside the Jarl's throne room.

“I wouldn't go up there if I were you,” he said as she paused next to him. “Some mad man is testing the patients of that Thalmor elf, he's likely to blow any time now.” A grin slipped on to his face, Thongvor would like to see it for himself if the man in question hadn't been so undeniably odd. 

“Mad man?” Yrsa wondered. “Who?”

Thongvor shrugged. “No idea, but he's pretty well dressed. Not some rabble from the street that's for sure. He's not all there though,” he added, pointing to his temple. “Makes me wonder what he's doing in my city.”

Yrsa frowned. “Thanks for the heads up.”

“Sure,” Thongvor said and settle back against the wall.

Who on Nirn would be foolish enough to make a Thalmor agent angry, especially with all his little elven thugs hanging about? He was insufferable to be sure, but she wasn't stupid enough to go “Talos worshipper, right here.” while pointing at herself, just to get a rise out of him.

Yrsa continued on into the throne room, and up the stairs. She could hear the argument now and the Thalmor agent sounded flustered and angry. 

“How dare you even insinuate-”

“You know, I don't understand why you refuse to believe in Talos, shouldn't you be aspiring to be like him? I mean look at me! Mortal turned demigod! Got a clap on the back for that one, haha!”

She would have recognized that voice anywhere. The Dragonborn sighed as she reached the top of the stairs, knowing that her hopes for an easy bit of bribery were gone. 

Sheogorath was standing to one side, his cane in front of him with both hands clasped on top. He was seemingly unworried by the drawn swords of the Thalmor minions that were pointed at him while he debated Talos worship with the Thalmor agent.

“You know, that sounds like _madness._ ” His voice dropped to a dangerous octave and a cruel smirk curled the edges of his lips. The elves and Yrsa took a surprised step back, but in the next breath it was back to normal. “But far be it from me to try and change your ways! Always looking for new citizens for the Isles!” Sheogorath started laughing.

“Are you a Talos worshipper?” the agent questioned, drawing himself up.

“What? No, no. I'm a Me worshipper! It would seem a little hypocritical to worship anybody other then Myself. That's rule one of being a prince: 'Worship no others but yourself'. The second being 'No pilfering daedric minions', though why anyone would even bother is beyond me. Have you seen a daedroth? UGLY!" Then suddenly he paused, thoughtful. “Can't says that I recall what the rest of the rules are. I suppose it doesn't matter, they're just guidelines really.”

The Dragonborn rolled her eyes at that. Guidelines, ha! What Daedric Prince would confine themselves to guidelines? A cruel grin crept over the Madgod's face and though he didn't turn to her, Yrsa knew he knew that she was there and silently mocking him. She silently cursed.

“Ah! Now if your still looking for someone who worships the Eight and One, there's a lovely mortal minion who does so adamantly!” He gestured toward her with his odd eyeball cane and the Thalmor's eyes snapped to hers. 

Yrsa smiled awkwardly. Next time she saw Sheogorath she was going to Wabbajack the Oblivion out of him. That was assuming -of course- she saw him again, and right now she thought it would be best for her sanity if she didn't.

“Nord!” the Altmer snapped. “You worship the false god Talos?”

Yrsa drew herself up, in for a penny in for a Septim. “I worship the god Talos.”

He advanced on her. “Do you know what we do to Talos worshippers, Nord?”

“Tell them they don't exist? Cause, boy if that really did work, there would be a lot less people in Tamriel, let me tell you.” This probably wasn't the best time for sarcasm.

The agent's hand began sparking with magic as he hissed. “Kill her.” Definitely a bad time for sarcasm.

The elven minions turned their blades on her and the Dragonborn drew her Blades sword, unwilling to go down without a fight. _'Talos,'_ she thought, _'you better appreciate this. If I go, I'd better go to Sovngarde. None of that Evergloom or Hunting Ground or Void nonsense.'_ Lightning flew from the agent's hands and she waited for the inevitable pain and temporary paralyzation that came with being shocked. After a moment she blinked cautiously to find that the lightning passed right through her, leaving nary a scratch. Both the Dragonborn and the Thalmor where confused by that. Sheogorath started laughing.

“How many times to you have to be told, Ondolemar? This world doesn't exist, it's all in your head! Quite impressive actually.” He started tapping his cane on the ground, a steady _tap, tap, tap._ “And as much fun as it has been watching you sink further and further into oblivion, I do believe it's time to go, don't you?” Again that dark drop at the end. It honestly crept her out. It was like an awful promise to do the most unspeakable things should you disagree or agree; depending on the question.

“No...” The agent stumbled backwards away from Yrsa, clutching his hands to his chest in the most pathetic manner, acting as if he was the one who had received a jolt of lightning. “No!” This clearly wasn't the first time the Altmer had crossed paths with the Madgod, Yrsa almost felt sorry for him. Almost.

Ondolemar rounded on Sheogorath and threw more lightning, but again nothing happened. It pasted through the semi-deity with no resistance. Sheogorath's laughter bounced around the stone walls, joyous and cruel. Ondolemar kept flinging his lightning bolts around the room, no longer caring to hit anything in particular. The Dragonborn couldn't help but flinch every time one came close to her, even though by now she figured nothing was going to truly hit her. The elven escort was watching the whole thing with dumb shock, not sure if they should help their leader, not sure if that was even possible. 

Sheogorath just laughed.

Then finally he seemed to deplete his mana reserves and collapsed to the ground, a weary, huddled mess of jumbled words and thoughts. Somewhere along the way the Madgod had silenced his laughter, and now the only sound was the whispered words of Ondolemar and the _tap, tap, tap_ of Sheogorath's cane.

The words became louder, and louder, until she could just make out what he was saying, “There are only Eight. There are only Eight.” Chanted over and over, as if that would make them true. And then finally something snapped, it made an audible noise, like the crack of a whip, and the Dragonborn felt something slap her in the face. Not hard, but enough to startle her. 

She raised a hand to her cheek and tried to figure out what it was. As Sheogorath silenced his cane it hit her, that was the sound of his mind snapping. _'Oh Talos.'_

“Ah, now there's a good boy, Ondolemar. To the Shivering Isles with you!” the Madgod exclaimed, a chuckle in his voice, as Ondolemar was surrounded by a blue hued magic and whisked away.

Hand still on her cheek, she turned to Sheogorath. “You just... He just... His mind..it hit me.” Her own mind failing miserably at trying to comprehend just how that was even possible.

Sheogorath grinned. “He loves it when I do that!”

\- - - -

The third time Yrsa met the Madgod was when she was hip deep in a battle for control of one of the Imperial forts. Lydia was somewhere off to her left, no more than ten paces, and Ralof was slightly in front and off to the right, providing some cover so that she could fire arrows. 

Yrsa felt, rather than heard, the crackling of powerful magic behind her, raising the small hairs on her neck and arms. Magic was never really her strong suit; sure she knew some simple healing spells, the ones that would prevent an immediate death of her or her companions on the battle field, but honestly it made her a little nervous. That was probably because it always felt as though it was crawling along her flesh like some sort of bug every time she was near it. 

Aware that someone could be trying to cast a spell at her back, the Dragonborn whipped around, ready to release the arrow she had notched and came face to...chest with Sheogorath. Yrsa hadn't realized until that moment how tall he was, as she was never in a position to accurately judge his height. He was taller than she thought. She lessened the tension on the bow slightly, pointing the arrow at the dirt.

Before she had the mind to say anything he looked at her with a lopsided grin and said, “Duck.”

Her body processed that warning long before her brain, her legs dropping her into the quick crouch while her mind was still going, “Huh?”. Yrsa felt the arrow whizz over the top of her head and watched as it passed through Sheogorath, thunking uselessly into the ground behind him. Ralof must have seen the arrow as he was quickly at her side, pulling her up beside him and using his shield to protect them from anymore arrow attacks. 

“Are you alright? Did you get hit?” he asked, voice tinged with worry.

He was pulling her way from the battle and Yrsa shrugged him off. “I'm fine, where in the Void did that shot come from? I thought we got all the archers.”

“Must have come from inside. Frokin is taking care of it,” Ralof replied, though she hardly heard him, her gaze was pinned to Sheogorath.

He was circling them, hands clasped behind his back, watching them, watching Ralof. His face almost seemed annoyed. Yrsa cocked her head slightly, where did his cane go? Ralof must have caught her distracted glances as he turned to follow her gaze, clearly missing that the Madgod was standing a few scant feet from them. 

“More Imperials?” he asked, quickly scanning the area.

“Oh, not yet,” Sheogorath answered, though it was for her benefit only. “But there soon will be. Your friend is going to be overwhelmed in a moment.” He paused thoughtfully. “Ever wonder why you can be overwhelmed, and underwhelmed, but you can never be just whelmed?”

The Dragonborn thought about that for a moment, wondering just what sort of emotion 'whelmed' was supposed to be. Then her mind processed the first part of what he said, and immediately her eyes snapped to the person in question.

“Lydia,” she breathed, seeing her Housecarl staunchly fighting off several Imperials, and pushed past Ralof to get a clear shot.

“Help her!” she barked at him, even as he was moving to do just that.

Yrsa let several arrows fly, careful to not hit Lydia, and as such they were less than fatal. Several Stormcloaks freed from there own battles with Imperials rushed by her to join the battle with Lydia. Several more Imperials appeared from inside the fortress to aid in its defence. 

Yrsa had just about forgotten that the Madgod was even there, when he laugh filled voice said from somewhere next to her, “Behind you!”

Whipping around the Dragonborn of found a few more Imperials lining up on a small archway, getting ready to fire arrows at the Stormcloaks currently engaged in battle else where. Yrsa fired three arrows in quick succession downing all but two of the archers, who now turned the attention to her. She notched another arrow and took out the fourth archer.

“Nothing quite like the heat of battle! Haha!”

The last archer aimed at a target farther back from her, and Yrsa was too slow in notching her own arrow to stop the shot. Beside her Sheogorath nimbly stepped to the side (though why he even bothered she had no idea) and watched the arrow sail by him, striking a Stormcloak in the back. He went down screaming.

Taking out the last archer she snapped, “Why are you even here?”

“And why not here? I was already there. Ooh, nice shot!” he called not indicating her, but in fact a lone Imperial who was quickly overwhelming a Stormcloak solider.

The Dragonborn took him out with a clean head shot. “Cheering for the other side, now?”

“Sides? There are no sides! Only carnage, and blood-lust and in the end the is only the victor. Good times!”

“Well if you're not going to help, leave. You're distracting me.” The demand was barely out of her mouth and Yrsa could feel herself pale, how she managed to hold on the tension of her bow was beyond her, let alone the shot. She prayed to Talos and the other Eight that Sheogorath wouldn't do something inexplicably horrible to her for daring to make demands of a Daedric Lord. She didn't want to find out just how _creative_ he could be.

Sheogorath simply waved a dismissive hand, and Yrsa let out a shuddering breath. “I am no more distracting then a Zealot preaching Heretic dogma to Gnarls, or that Nord of yours. Who, by the way, is about to be impaled on an Imperial sword.” He gestured with his cane -back again was it?- to Ralof's position. “And you wouldn't want that, now would you?”

Yrsa followed its line to where Ralof was fighting off the last dredges of Imperial soldiers, and like Sheogorath said, he was losing his battle. She was too far away to do anything immediate, and Ralof was in too many of her shots for her to dare firing any arrows at the Imperials. She tore her eyes from the scene and scanned the battle ground for her Housecarl. 

“Lydia!” she cried as she laid eyes on her form, far closer to Ralof than herself. The woman whipped around to face her, immediately concerned for her Thane's safety. The Dragonborn pointed toward Ralof, and Lydia got the message. She thundered over to the Stormcloak's position and started whopping Imperial ass. Talos, she loved that woman. 

Yrsa breathed a sigh of relief as the last of the Imperials were silenced, and she lowered her bow.

Turning she was about to thank Sheogorath for informing her of her friends imminent death, but the words died as she caught sight of him. He was standing still and silent, his air of insane joviality was frighteningly absent as he surveyed the bloodied battle field. Then suddenly, as though it had never happened, he turned to her, grin on his face and gave a jaunty wave as he vanished all together.


	2. Parts IV & V

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For some reason I was convinced that Mehrunes' Razor was the one that banished daedra, and wrote this part accordingly. Then I looked it up just to be sure, and found I was wrong; it's actually Malacath's Scourge that does that. (I must have gotten into Walter's stash or something) I'm guessing that's why he's no fun at parties. (Malacath I mean, Walter's probably a hoot.) I attempted to re-write this part, but I never really worked out well enough, so I left it as is. Fiction is all about the suspension of belief anyways, right?

The fourth time was a rather awkward affair, mostly for her, since Sheogorath seemed to pay little mind to the fact that he had interrupted her and Ralof having sex. Sort of. Not sort of having sex, but sort of interrupting. Is it considered interrupting if only one person can see or hear you? 

Frankly Yrsa was starting to think that the Madgod was just part of her imagination, the way that only she could see and hear him. That seemed like a black mark on Ralof. In the sense that she had to come up with elaborate illusions to escape sex with him. Which wasn't true, as far as men and sex went, he was one of the better ones. She should also probably mention here that she wasn't attempting to escape sex in general. 

Sheogorath was sitting on the stone ledge next to one of the dagger cases in her Markarth home. The Dragonborn was about to tell him how this was so not the best time for a chat when Ralof's stroke hit a soft squidgy spot and instead of actual words Yrsa let out a breathy gasp. Probably for the best anyways, she'd pretty much be signing her self over to the madhouse (ha! _Madhouse._ ) if she started talking with someone who may or may not actually be there, especially during intercourse. 

When she had enough sense to look back to where Sheogorath was sitting, she noticed that he was holding a dagger. A familiar, jagged dagger that looked like it had come from the pits of the Void itself. In fact he wasn't really holding, but rather twirling it nonchalantly through his fingers and...damn it, Yrsa recognized that cruel looking weapon. She thought she'd left that in Dawnstar with the weird elf and besides, shouldn't he have been banished to the pits of Oblivion for just looking at the thing? 

“Just as ugly as I remember it,” Sheogorath said, stopping the Razor mild twirl for a closer look. “Dagon always did know the quickest way to kill something, even if he lacked creativity! Me, kill! Me, stomp! Me, defeated by an illegitimate heir!” He started laughing, clearly mocking the other prince. “I mean just look at what he tried to do to Cyrodiil, no pomp, no show! Why if he'd taken a few moments to plan an entrance rather than just appearing he might have actually won. But at the most crucial time he stopped listening to his master strategist. Of course that could have also been due to the fact that I killed his master strategist while in his own realm! Ha! Or that he had a master strategist in the first place. Still hasn't forgiven me for that one! Mind you it doesn't really matter; Dagon doesn't forgive anyone. The only good thing to come from the destruction of the Imperial city was that nifty dragon statue in the Temple of the One, really goes with the decor of the place.”

Yrsa had never seen the statue, or rather the corpse of the last Septim emperor as he was frozen for all time as the avatar of the god Akatosh. She would like to see it though, maybe one day when all the wars were over she would travel to Cyrodiil and see it. Though given her current occupations, she may never get the chance. That made her strangely sad, it seemed that her whole life was now dedicated to people and things other than herself. Listener, Nightingale, Stormcloak, Dovahkiin, Harbinger, and apparently crazy since why else would the Madgod hang around? The Golden Road was not _just_ a place in Cyrodiil after all. 

Lydia was right, she should have never spoken to any daedra, least of all the Prince of Madness. Yrsa let out a sigh that was just on this side of frustrated and Ralof stopped his movements. 

“Am I doing it wrong?” he asked, smirk on curling one side of his lips. A testament to how often her mind like to wander at the most _inappropriate_ moments.

“What? No! I just...” She had the good grace to blush. “I'm sorry, I have a lot on my mind.” And there was a certain Madgod causing a distraction.

“Did you want to pick this up at a later time?” he asked, smirk still firmly in place, but sounding all serious as if they were discussing battle plans instead of sex. 

Yrsa placed a hand over her face. “Oh gods,” Yrsa grumbled thoroughly embarrassed. Then, peeking out from her fingers, “Would you hate me if I said yes?”

“Never.”

“Then, yes.”

Ralof moved from on top of her, half flaccid from her lack of participation and subsequent conversation. He made to get off the bed and get dressed, she grabbed his arm.

“This isn't because I don't enjoy you,” she said, needing to make herself understood. Ralof was dear to her, and she did enjoy him. Sex and otherwise. 

“I know,” he replied with a soft smile. “But you've got too much going on up here.” He placed a gentle finger on her forehead.

Yrsa grabbed it and entwined her hand with his. “You have no idea,” she replied with a smirk.

Ralof dressed quickly, years of battle made him efficient in many things. When he was done, he dropped a quick kiss on her crown, and she was mindful to have the blankets drawn around her lest Sheogorath get an eyeful. He probably had already had but she wasn't about to give a repeat performance.

“You're an amazing woman, Yrsa. A little crazy, but amazing.”

Now if that didn't just hit the nail on the head. 

“Talos guide you, Ralof,” she replied, certain he was headed into danger. Like they all were. 

When the heavy metal door latched closed, the sound of it echoed through the stone dwelling. It was only then that she turned to acknowledge Sheogorath. He was smirking, but not with his lips, but rather with the tilt of his eyebrow and the crinkles around his eyes. 

Yrsa had plenty of things to say, all vying for the top spot. Such as: 'What in the Void are you doing here?' or 'This wasn't the best time for your particular brand of crazy to show up' or 'Are you really even here or am I just headed to the Madhouse?'. 

What her mouth had settled on, quite without her say, was, “Why aren't you in Oblivion for touching that?”

Sheogorath laughed, seemingly delighted by that question. “Because I was once a mortal! Part of me still is, will always be, and that makes me mostly immune to such curses.”

Yrsa narrowed her eyes a calculating look came into them as she evaluated his form. “It's hard to imagine you as a mortal.”

She had barely uttered the words when Sheogorath's form changed before her, revealing a thirty something Breton with dark hair and eyes. His features were similar to the daedra she knew and yet different. “How about now?” Even his voice changed cadence. 

“Uh...better?” she sputtered, and then immediately chastised herself. _'Oh, how eloquent, Yrsa'_

He laughed and morphed back into the Madgod. “I don't often I use that form anymore. The denizens of the Isles generally don't believe he is the Madgod, Me on the other hand...”

It wasn't hard to believe this oddly dressed man was crazy enough to be Sheogorath, but Yrsa had never heard of a mortal becoming a daedric prince. She pulled the sheets tighter around herself and wondered if crazy was catching.

“Why do you keep following me? That is if you actually are here, and since I seemed to be the only to ever catch sight of you, I am seriously starting to question my own sanity.”

Sheogorath grinned, but it was edged with a feral sort of darkness. “Sanity is life's greatest illusion! And don't listen to Sithis. Innocence, bah! He stole that line from Me! Well the Me that was Me before Me.” He leaned forward, and spoke as if imparting some great secret. “Madness makes it so. And everyone is insane my dear moral minion. There are varying degrees of it to be sure, but the seeds of madness exists within everyone. Don't worry, though, you're not there, _yet._ ”

Yrsa blew out a breath of air, ruffling some of her light coloured hair. Immensely relieved by that statement and simultaneously terrified by it. “Okay, not the most comforting thing you could have told me, but that still doesn't answer my question. Why me?”

“I should think it is obvious my dear mortal, you're a Dragonborn! Haven't been one of you since Martin, and he doesn't visit very often. After everything I did for him too! Bah, mortals. Once you die you think all obligations are off. Two hundred years have passed and he's only been by for tea a handful of times.”

Honestly, she couldn't blame the man, especially if all the tea parties went as well as the one she attended in Pelagius' mind. Still as daedric princes went, she had to admit she like Sheogorath better than Boethiah or Peryite. Plus unlike most daedra, he didn't ask her to kill anyone, which was a nice change.

“So, you want me to stop by for tea sometime?” Yrsa had meant it as a rhetorical question, but it had come out sounding more like a genuine one. Oh, how nice, she was starting to sympathize with him. Great. Definitely crazy.

Sheogorath grinned, and this time it was manic happiness with a touch of smugness. “I'll see you on the second of Sun's Dawn!” Then he was gone in a flash of blue hued magic.

She was momentarily thrown by his sudden departure. After a moment she frowned and blew out an angry huff of air. “Gods damn it all, he played me.”

\- - - -

The fifth time (but by no means the last time) she met Him, was as she was traipsing through Blackreach in order to find an Elder Scroll. The Dragonborn had to admit that Blackreach was beautiful, in a deadly, tomb kind of way. However, it was way too dark. Yrsa kept miss-stepping because she thought the ground was closer than it actually was. Then there were Falmer, just waiting to ambush her in the dark, and the noise of the crimson Nirnroot was making her crazy. Always singing, even after being picked. And what in the name of Talos was a _dragon_ doing down here? Bloody Dwemer and their bloody ruins. 

Yrsa had just about reached the tower that housed the Scroll (after searching every other tower in the place, this had to be the one because she had had it up _here_ with this place) when she felt powerful magicka creep along her skin. 

“Lydia!” she yelled, not really sure what her Housecarl could do, but needing to say something if only to warn her away. 

The warm magic enfolded Yrsa, pierced her, and she felt her Dragon soul lash out against the magic. It's roar of indignation was short lived, for as quickly as the magic had grabbed her, it deposited Yrsa gently on a chair, and ebbed away. Leaving the warmth of it lingering on her skin. 

A table laden with sweet delights was before her, and around her was flora unlike anything she'd ever seen. One side was brightly coloured and beautiful, the plants had a otherworldly feel and a wildly cheerful look to them. The other side ran the complete opposite, dark and dreary were its flora, covered with cruel looking spikes and vines and slithered like snakes. Yrsa tore her eyes away from the scenery to focus on those present at the table.

“Welcome my dear mortal minion! So punctual, ha!” Sheogorath said cheerfully as he held a tea cup and saucer, gesturing with it. Though it was full of liquid, sloshing about, none of it ever spilt over the rim. It danced wildly up and around the cup, settling safely back inside when the movements stilled. It was rather hypnotizing. She shook herself.

“It's not often we have company is it, Martin? No, no, not even Haskill joins us. He is an excellent Chamberlain, but as far as company goes, he tends to be a little dull.” The tea cup sloshed. “Now, I suppose introductions are in order. Martin this is Yrsa. Yrsa this is Martin. I'm afraid you'll have to navigate the strawberry torte, sweet rolls and cream cake to shake hands.”

Yrsa looked to her right, at the head of the table was Martin, and across the table from her was Sheogorath. He was sitting a throne, so perhaps it would be better said that Sheogorath was at the head of the table. To be honest, Martin wasn't exactly what she'd been expecting in a Septim emperor, let alone a fellow Dragonborn. She'd thought a hardened warrior, strong features and a calm authority about him. Or perhaps something more ethereal, the Septimes were said to have Sight. This man was neither, he was average, kind looking and calm despite the madness apparent around him. The only thing striking about him was his blue eyes. They were like chips of ice, sharp and intelligent, but the lines around them softened there harshness. 

“It's a pleasure to meet you, Yrsa, but I think perhaps we should wait to shake hands, at least 'til the table is cleared somewhat.”

“Agreed...” she paused, feeling a little foolish. “Uh, I'm sorry, but I've never had to address a deceased Emperor, I'm not sure on protocol here.”

He held up a hand and smiled, it was disarming and full of rueful charm. “Please, just Martin will do. I was only officially declared Emperor posthumously and the rest of the time it never felt right to be addressed as such.”

“Fair enough,” she said and turned to Sheogorath. “This must be the Second of Sun's Dawn. I guess I lost track of time in that stupid Dwemer ruin. Look, I'm sort in the middle of an important mission to save Nirn from the World-Eater. Maybe we could do this next year?” 

“There is always some disaster facing the world, and it hasn't ended yet! Take a moment for you. You never know when you might find yourself facing Sovngarde.”

Considering her current path, Yrsa figured it would be sooner, rather than later. Course she couldn't guarantee that she would even be seeing Sovngarde. Maybe one cup of tea before she had to get back to the task at hand, it was damnably cold in Blackreach.

“Pass me a cup, and please tell me it does that neat sloshing around thing.”

Sheogorath poured her a cup if tea and handed it over. “Now that's more like it! Haha! Slosh to your hearts desire.”

Yrsa gave the up the cup a few good turns before taking a sip and setting back down on the saucer. The Madgod laughed and Martin smiled and Yrsa felt more at ease than she had in along while. She was filling her plate up with delectable sweets when the air around the table contracted and her nose itched. Moments later a swath of daedric magic appeared and left behind a primly dressed balding man, with a bored look on face.

“My Lord,” the man said, addressing Sheogorath. “There is a matter in Your court which requires Your attention.”

“Not now Haskill, I have guests.” Sheogorath waved him off with a dismissive flick.

“Yes, my apologizes my Lord, but this matter is of the gravest of import.” Not that any one would guess that from the utter lack of inflection in this Haskill's voice. 

“Is Carville at it again? He must want to take a dive on to Suicide Hill. Always the eager sort! But I don't have the time to oblige him at the moment, tell him to make an appointment.”

“No, my Lord, the Duke of Dementia has not taken up cannibalism again. I believe Your previous punishment has sufficed. The matter I refer to is of.... _Him,_ my Lord.”

There was a dark beat of silence. “Him? HIM! What is _He_ doing here?” 

“I am not entirely sure, perhaps You could question Him, my Lord.” Haskill was utterly un-phased by the out burst. Yrsa, on the other hand, had cringed back and hadn't dared to even draw breath. 

“Oh very well, Haskill.” Sheogorath waved an impatient hand at the Chamberlain and he vanished in a flash of magic. “I never get a moment to Myself. It's enough to drive you mad!” Then Sheogorath was gone as well, leaving his two guests alone at the table.

“Does that happen often?” Yrsa asked after a moment or two of silence, when she finally deemed it safe enough to breathe. Then paused and looked at Martin. “Actually, I'm not just sure what I was asking about with that question.”

“If you're asking about disappearing in the middle of tea? Then, no. In general? Constantly.” Martin took a sip of tea. “Even before he was a daedra. Sometimes when I was just in the middle of explaining an idea, he'd run off; already knowing what I was saying before I'd even said it.” He laughed at the memory, then seemed sad.

She allowed a moment of silence to pass before asking, “What if I was asking about who or what they were talking about that made him angry?”

Martin shrugged. “No idea. But I can't imagine it's anything good.”

“With that reaction? I imagine not.”

Martin sighed and set his tea down. “Some days I wonder why I even bother coming here anymore. Daniel's gone, replaced by a mad daedra.”

“Daniel?”

“Who he was before.”

“Oh, the Breton.”

He looked her askance. “Yes, how did you know?”

“I told him that it was hard believe he was once mortal, so he showed me. Frankly I still find it hard to believe.”

“As do I.”

They fell into silence after that, and Yrsa ate a whole sweet roll before speaking again. “Is that why don't come for tea very often?”

A small line appeared between his brows. “I've never missed a date.”

Her face grew dark. “I knew that whole bit had to be a lie, damn him.”

Martin laughed. “Well it's not exactly a lie, I'm always on time. It's the Isles that aren't.”

“What?”

“Time here is subject to Sheogorath's whims. It's never what we would consider, 'the correct time'. So because of that I'm often late, or early or years after or before an agreed date, when I know I'm right on time.”

“Talos, that's got to be confusing.”

“Maddening is probably more appropriate.”

Yrsa sipped her tea, a smile quirking her lips. “Probably.”

It was nice how the tea never seem to get cold, and it was definitely time for some strawberry torte. Back home hot beverages always went cold fast, it seemed as though you'd barely had two sips and the climate had stolen all its heat. Perhaps that was why meed was the Nordic beverage of choice; instant heat best served cold. 

“You're friend is still in there,” Yrsa said, taking a moment to be serious. “He's taken an annoying interest in me because I'm a Dragonborn, something we have in common. If he was completely gone, I don't think he would have spent the last while driving me mad. If that's any consolation.”

His laugh was low and incredulous. “...Strangely, it is. Though, my apologies to your sanity.”

She smiled glad to have cheered Martin somewhat when her nosed itched again. She gave it an impatient rub and for a moment the air became heavy. Sheogorath appeared again at the table and the weight lifted. Magicka seemed to be much more potent in this realm. It hung in the air, and felt like it left a layer on her skin. She subconsciously rubbed her arms.

Sheogorath was silent. There was a dangerous energy about him that seemed to suck all the previous cheer out of the air. Yrsa didn't dare speak. Quietly she picked at the torte, trying not to clink the dishes or silver ware. Making herself as small a target as possible, not that it really succeeded with her Nord stature and all.

“Yrsa,” Martin said lowly. “Pass the tea, would you?”

“Hmm?” She looked at him, a moment passing before the request made itself understood. Then she glanced around and found the pot sitting in front of her. “Oh. Here.”

She could feel Sheogorath watching them, and slowly she could sense his mood lifting. The magicka around them became less stifling. Yrsa chanced a look at him, he was smirking at her, like a delicious joke had just been told but no one understood it but him. She quirked an eyebrow at him.

“How would you like to be my champion, mortal?”

“I thought I already was.”

“No, no.” He waved a dismissive hand. “That was a exercise in entertainment! A showcase of one of Tamriel's greatest emperors. Aside from you, of course Martin.”

Martin quirked a half smile, and took a sip of his tea. “Of course.”

“But this, THIS, is a proposal for a champion, a mortal to tip the scales in My favour.” Sheogorath leaned back in his throne and summoned his cane. He balanced it in the palm of his hand, lazily moving it about but seemingly paying it no real mind. 

Yrsa watched its movements for a moment, considering the Madgod's words. She was a sucker for adventure and the prospect of it always made her pause.

“I'm already in the middle of a Nirn-shattering quest right now, and besides, I already have the Wabbajack. Not that I don't want to help, but what's it for me?”

Sheogorath smiled, slow and devious. “Oh, only your immortal soul. What? Didn't think I knew about your precarious afterlife situation? Every prince wants a piece of your soul, and the gods won't interfere on your behalf. Can't actually. Rules. But I still hold a golden ticket to Sovngarde, or Aetherius of that's your preference. Though, an everlasting meed hall sounds like a better party.”

A guarantee that her soul wouldn't go anywhere but to Sovngarde? Yrsa sucked in a breath. She was an honourable warrior, she never once doubted her admittance into that great hall until this mess with Alduin. Now she had promises and alliance across the board and an uncertain afterlife ahead, but this, oh this was exactly what she wanted, needed for her piece of mind. But...

“How do I know you won't just claim my soul for yourself?”

“And try and fight off Sithis for your soul? Ha! I'd rather spent time in Malacath's realm, and believe me, I _do not_ want spent time in Malacath's realm. Of course if you wanted to stay, that'd be something else (possibly a cheesecake or grummite) but I don't want to _take_ your soul, Yrsa. That would be too easy.”

The Dragonborn sat back and thought about this for a moment.

“Alright Sheogorath, I'll be your champion, but I have to stop Alduin first.”

“Excellent!” He clapped his hand together, the cane remained floating in mid-air. “Now go, scamper off; slay dragons, men and mer to your hearts content!”

Magic encapsulated her, blurring her sight of the half finished torte. Yrsa gazed at it wistfully (when was she ever going to get another one of those?) for the few seconds she had to see it, then she was deposited in the cold darkness of Blackreach once again. Lydia's hand fell on her arm, and though her eyes had yet to readjust to the gloom, she could feel the concern in the touch. But even with Lydia's reassuring grip, Yrsa could still feel the Madgod's magic lingering on her skin, warm and heavy. A touch of madness to keep her company, a promise of things to come.


End file.
